“Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy-bottle, I shouldn’t be quite so staggery this mornin’,” replied Sam. “Are you stoppin’ in this house, old ’un?”
The mulberry man replied in the affirmative.
“How was it you worn’t one of us, last night?” inquired Sam, scrubbing his face with the towel. “You seem one of the jolly sort—looks as conwivial as a live trout in a lime-basket,” added Mr. Weller, in an under-tone.
“I was out last night, with my master,” replied the stranger.
“What’s his name?” inquired Mr. Weller, colouring up very red with sudden excitement, and the friction of the towel combined.
“Fitz-Marshall,” said the mulberry man.
“Give us your hand,” said Mr. Weller, advancing; “I should like to know you. I like your appearance, old fellow.”
“Well, that is very strange,” said the mulberry man, with great simplicity of manner. “I like yours so much, that I wanted to speak to you, from the very first moment I saw you under the pump.”
“Did you though?”